


The Third Wish

by historymiss



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the-duelling-tophat on tumblr. Varric and Flemeth meet, play cards, and talk about witches and wishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Wish

A witch walks into a bar.

Okay, so maybe it doesn’t quite begin like that. Maybe it begins a little more mundanely, or as mundane as anything in Kirkwall can get. Maybe an old woman finds herself in Kirkwall’s notorious Hanged Man, opposite Kirkwall’s notorious Varric Tethras, clutching a complimentary pint of Corff’s finest and trying not to smile into the foam.

“Good thing I came along when I did.” Varric says, for want of something to fill the empty space between them. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t.”

It’s funny how the patrons of the Hanged Man look out for each other. Wether it’s pirates giving tips in bar fights or nobody ratting out a certain apostate Mage with a decidedly dodgy haircut, it’s one of those impromptu families that seem to be springing up all over Thedas these days. In this case, it’s cleared out a bunch of thugs who really should have had better ways to spend their time than victimising an elderly lady.

Ever the hero, the dwarf just had to help out. It would have been criminal not to- and besides, he never could resist the classics.

“Oh,” the old woman says airily, “I’m sure something would have come up.”

Varric opens his mouth to say something acidic and witty in reply, but he’s pulled up short by the old woman’s sudden exclamation of surprise.

“Oh, you have some cards!” she stacks them up, cuts them, her gnarled fingers caressing the squares of pasteboard like lovers. “It’s been so long since I had a game, good ser. Would you care to indulge me?”

Every instinct Varric has screams no, but like anything else he inherited from his father he ignores them. The little voice that’s entirely his own says yes, and he repeats it, out loud, and not so little.

“Sure.” he sets his mug down. “Why not?”

The woman deals the cards for Wicked Grace, picking up her hand and scanning it shrewdly. Varric does likewise.

“What brought you to the Hanged Man, anyway?” Varric asks conversationally, as the game starts. The old woman shrugs.

“The need for a drink and some company. I get so lonely, these days.” she lays down a card, looks at him. “When you are old, you will understand.”

Varric frowns at his cards, flicks them with a finger. “I’m sure. Don’t know if it’d lead me to one of Kirkwall’s most notorious dives, though.”

The woman laughs. It’s oddly familiar. “I have been in far worse places, young man, believe me.”

“And yet I don’t.” Varric lays down his own card, and the woman concedes with a slight incline of her head.

The pile of cards grows.

“You may believe what you like.” she replies, her eyes yellow in the candelight. “It’s your stock in trade, isn’t it? Stories?”

“It is.” Varric admits.

“Do you know any stories about witches?” She smiles on the last word, as if it pleases her tongue to say it.

“I know a few.” Varric racks his brain. “Mostly dull. Witches are for granting three wishes and running off with unsuitable men in the light of the moon. Not really a Kirkwall thing.”

He gathers the pile and deals the cards again. “Besides, there’s not that many babies around here to steal.”

“There’s many in this city that would be grateful for a wish or three.” The woman watches him deal hungrily. Varric nods.

“Just so. But money, power, wealth? You can have that so many other ways.”

“A father’s name, or a silver tongue.” she picks up her cards and smiles. “The first two wishes are always the boring ones. It’s what you do with the third wish that’s important.”

“The deus ex machina?” Varric snorts. “Please. What good is a story if you can simply wish everything back to the way it was?”

‘No good at all.” the woman agrees. “But there’s a time when every hero craves it, and every storyteller wishes he could give it.”

She lays the cards out, and her eyes meet his. They are, Varric realises, a dragon’s eyes: gold and hard and utterly without warmth.

“Witches are for more than wishes, ser.”

There’s a loud clatter as the barmaid drops her tray, an avalanche of mugs and beer and shouting and, in the confusion, Varric takes his eyes away from the woman. When he looks back at her she’s gone. Of course. Could there by any other ending than this?

Varric gapes from his chair, sitting forward as if he can look into the empty air and see how the trick was pulled.

“Fantastic.” he mutters, running a gloved hand over his face. “Nobody’s going to believe that happened.”

(And, indeed, they don’t.)


End file.
